


The Letter

by shamebucket



Category: Breaking Bad
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Backstory, Canon Compliant, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, minor Jesse/Andrea
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-31
Updated: 2020-06-30
Packaged: 2021-03-02 17:53:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,312
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24350863
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shamebucket/pseuds/shamebucket
Summary: While held captive in the compound, enduring multiple sources of anguish, Jesse tries to find the words he needs to say.
Relationships: Brock Cantillo & Jesse Pinkman
Comments: 17
Kudos: 20
Collections: Fandom 5K 2020





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SegaBarrett](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SegaBarrett/gifts).



Sometimes, upon waking from a dream, the world feels hazy and soft. His body, for a few hours, is able to forget what has been happening. He's able to relax. He's able to imagine a better world. There's warm hugs, smiles, two bodies nestled against his own. There's a brief illusion that he is safe, that things are okay. He wants to delude himself into believing that this something that he can come back to. 

And, sometimes, he has nightmares about the things he's seen. Lately, he dreams where he screams soundlessly, his throat growing sore even though nobody can hear him (not even himself), as he watches everything he ever cared about get torn out from underneath him. Isn't that basically what he's living through, anyway? _Some escapism this is,_ he wants to chastise his brain. 

At the bottom of his cell, Jesse lies curled up in a ball, shivering. He wishes he could have a nice dream. People on the surface are laughing, ribbing each other. Even through the tarp, the scent of cigarettes wafts down to his nose. His skin prickles uncomfortably at the smell. God, how long has it been since he's had a smoke? He doesn't crave it as strongly anymore, but the scent still makes every hair on his body stand on end and gives him a dull headache. He wishes he could bum a cigarette off of someone. It would never be enough to take the edge off, but it'd be something. He curls in harder on himself.

The corner of the tarp lifts and the scent grows stronger. He can hear the tarp crinkle as it flaps lightly in the wind. "Hey, Jesse. It's time." 

It rained all night. Jesse can hardly tell that it's day. Not that he's been keeping track lately - it doesn't really matter. He doesn't eat regularly, he doesn't have much in the way of entertainment, and there's nothing for him to look forward to. All that's left for him to do is to follow orders, sleep, and wait for... something. Anything. 

Todd grins at him as he lifts up the tarp entirely, cigarette in his mouth. Last night's rain pools towards the center, and Jesse jumps out of its path, just in case something happens. Something _always_ seems to happen. If it can, it will. Although it's overcast, the light of day makes him blink a few times as he adjusts. "It sure is nice to see you," Todd says amicably. Jesse doesn't respond. His nerves are so fried that fear barely registers anymore, but he knows that's why he can't find it in himself to reply. Todd's smile fades. "Well," he says, opening the latch, "it's about time for you to cook. We don't want the batch to go bad, okay? Not when things are going so well for us." 

Jesse grits his teeth. "Yeah." 

The ladder descends, invading Jesse's living space. Discomfort fills Jesse's chest. He never knows how he should feel when the ladder is offered to him. It should be a blessing. It's a way out of this hellhole, at least for a few hours. He's not sure what day it is or how long he's been in captivity - has it been days since Andrea was murdered? Weeks? It's been two cooks; that's all he knows. The time between cooks doesn't seem as regular as it used to be, so it's anyone's guess. Being able to actually walk around, even a little bit, to be able to breathe some fresh air and not have to stay cooped up in his cage, alone with his thoughts and the pail they left so he could have _some_ illusion of cleanliness. 

\-- But it's just as hellish outside, just in a different way. The ladder is like a knife for his hand, but instead of being placed in his palm, it's _stabbed through_ his palm. 

His body feels heavy as he climbs his way upwards, as if willing him to stay underground. Still, he struggles against his own body and makes it to the surface. Todd clasps onto his hand as he reaches one of the top rungs and helps him up, smiling wanly at him. "You're not going to do anything stupid today, right? I really don't like seeing you get hurt. Believe me, I don't enjoy seeing you suffer." Jesse doesn't dignify that with a response. Todd sighs through his nose, puffing out smoke. "Well, okay then." 

He knows the drill. Handcuffs as he's walked over to the compound, then strapped to the chain running from the ceiling. Todd watches the entire time like a guard dog, just two paces behind. 

It's funny. Jesse originally thought Todd looked relatively harmless, as far as fellow criminals go. Kind of like a Labrador puppy. The other guys working at Vamanos Pest looked more shady. He knows better now. After everything he's seen, he'd liken him more to a German Pinscher if he had to pick a breed. Guess he got the obedience thing down right, at least. 

Cooking for Jack and his gang feels like old times in some ways. The lack of proper protective equipment, working with some asshole breathing down your neck the whole time. He knows he's not doing as good as job as Mr. White could do, but Jack doesn't seem to give a shit. Makes enough sense. Jack seems largely disinterested in continuing this operation. Todd is the only one that actually seems to care about producing something good, and to go on as they always have. 

Jesse sighs, looking at the picture they still have attached to his work station. If for nothing else, he has to keep on to ensure that Brock stays alive. He's not going to let anybody die for his sake again. He will die first. 

"Daylight's wasting. Time to get going, rat," Jack says, shoving him. Jesse trips and the chain catches him. Jack sneers, an ugly cackle rattling out of his throat as he watches Jesse struggle to stand, and then hobble over to start his cook.

~

Being alone has given Jesse a lot of time to think. Probably too much time.

He stares at the wall, tracing along the imperfections with his eyes. A crack here, a bit that should have been smoothed over there. He reaches out and touches it, his fingers dipping into the divot. 

For a second, he has a crazy thought. What if he somehow steals a utensil from Todd the next time he gets food, and tries to dig himself out of here? It can't be any worse of an idea than what he's tried before. He can go about it real slow, too, so they won't know that something's wrong until they wake up one morning and he's gone. Yeah. That sounds great. He tries to use his fingernails to scrape away at some of the loose bits of concrete, but all he gets are tiny, ready to fall off pieces, and sore nail beds. 

Then he thinks about it. You'd think that being alone would make it so your thoughts can spiral down crazy, unrealistic rabbit holes without any ability to have someone more sensible reign you in, but Jesse always finds his mind going back to the same place, despite everything that's happened. He has one tether left. 

What about Brock? 

Jesse pounds at the floor, choking out a sob. He can't let anything bad happen to that kid. Too many kids have died because of him, and he hates it. One kid is too much. He hates that it was two. Tomás and Drew. Sometimes it feels like it was him that pulled the trigger, even though he knows that it's not technically true. He's never killed a kid with his own hands. Just the thought...

He feels sick imagining what they might do to Brock. Tears running down his face, he retreats from the wall, rocking back and forth on the hard ground. It's so cold. The wind howls above him, whipping itself underneath the tarp. He shakes, both from the chill and his own turbulent emotions.

~

How long has he been down here?

He can tell that it's been at least a few days. Todd, as if taking pity on him, had cast down a few gallons of water, some nutrition bars, and some Campbell's soup. Most of it's gone now. It had been so long since Jesse had anything beyond table scraps that he dove at the opportunity for some good food and ate it heartily, almost to the point where it hurt. He had forgotten what it felt like to be full. It looks like it'll be a while until he knows that feeling again. Hunger gnaws at his senses. He placed his last two bars and a can of chicken noodle on the opposite side of the cage, trying to keep it as far out of reach as possible. He doesn't want to be tempted. 

But still they call. The aches of his body are the only thing that are tethering him to reality. 

Jesse feels like he's losing his mind. He can sometimes vaguely hear the men at the compound milling around, but it's like they've forgotten he exists. _Does_ he exist anymore? Are people looking for him? His parents probably don't give a shit, since they've considered him dead or worse for over a year... And even if Jake cared, he's just a kid and underneath his parents' thumb. God, and it's been a while since he had talked to Badger or Skinny Pete. What's Mr. White doing? Has he gotten caught? He must've been, right? No way would the D.E.A. let its own men get murdered in cold blood so blatantly like that without any recourse. Is he in prison? Is he... 

He chews the inside of his cheek. (It feels slightly tacky against his teeth.) God, he wanted so badly for Mr. White to get what was coming to him. Now, he can barely feel anything. Is it lucky that he lived that day in the desert? If Mr. White is alive... is he disappointed in Jesse? He had to know it was coming. That was always the thing with Mr. White - he was always half a step away from disaster at any given moment, and he had gotten _so fucking close_ to having everything explode in his face multiple times. It was like, just before a bomb was about to explode, he would go in and rewire the damn thing and combust himself, not caring about who got hurt in the process as long as it furthered his own goals. He couldn't have trusted anybody... right? It wasn't really a betrayal. He was just getting what was coming to him. Karma and all that shit. After everything he did? To Jane? To _Brock_? But still... Jesse curls in on himself and gnaws at a fingernail. 

Well, whatever, right? Jesse's here now, and he has to survive, regardless of what any assholes think. He has no idea when the next time Todd will come by with more food, or with the ladder to drag him up to the surface, so he's not going to press his luck. 

He taps his fingers on his jeans. It's nuts, but there's one way that he can reliably count time. _One, two and, and four, one and two and, and four..._ He taps out the drum line from one of the songs he wrote during his TwaüghtHammër days and focuses on it. 

In his mind's eye, everything is good again. He's back in high school, living with Aunt Ginny. They're playing in her garage, and shit isn't completely fucked. He can remember the smell of her garage, and feel the drumsticks in his hand. Badger, Cheevo and Anthony would be laughing and fucking around and he'd try to get them to focus on actually playing the music. At least Paul was always pretty reliable. He even asked for sheet music once. Jesse smiles at the memory. Dude thought Jesse could actually write that shit down. He could barely understand tab. Drumming and writing came to him much more naturally. " _Fallacies, fallacies..._ " 

A thought pops into his head. Would Brock be interested in music? What kind of hobbies other than gaming will he get into as he gets older? 

Three minutes exactly have passed. "Fallacies" is over. Jesse leans his head against the wall and exhales slowly. _One, two, three, four..._

~

Jesse doesn't have to wait all that long for Todd to return. The timing isn't exactly perfect, but he goes through his old sets twice before he gets bored, and it must be... ten minutes? Maybe? After that when Todd lifts up the tarp and slides the ladder through the hatch. So... about three hours of waiting. "Sorry about the wait," Todd says. "Had some business to attend to and, well... you know how the rest of the guys are."

Todd is lined by light. He is well-groomed, wearing clean, stiff clothes. As Jesse stares up at him, he feels insignificant, small, horrid. He's so dirty. Since being captured, he hasn't been able to change. It's like Todd is rubbing it in his face that he's got the shit end of the stick, that he's a prisoner. Why does he even bother trying to treat him nicely sometimes. 

Todd squats, looking down at Jesse. "Come on. Don't make me go down there. You know Uncle Jack wouldn't like it." 

Legs trembling, Jesse finally concedes, walking like a fledgling deer towards the ladder, climbing up it slowly. His body is tired from a lack of food and a lack of proper exercise. His eyes are trained on the ground even as he climbs up - he knows his true home is in the pit. 

He flinches as Todd pats his back firmly a few times. "There we go! That wasn't so bad, right?" Jesse turns his eyes towards his captor. Todd smiles at him, without a hint of false pretenses. "Good things happen when you obey instructions." 

"Mm." Jesse nods and stares down at the ground, allowing himself to be guided towards the lab. 

... Or he thought it would be the lab, but he ends up someplace else. He stands in front of a pleated concrete wall, sloped slightly. "Yo," Jesse asks, nervous, "no cook today?" 

"Not yet." Jesse looks up, his heart rate rising. Jack and a half dozen of his men stand in front of him. In Jack's arms is a heavy duty industrial hose, the valve to start the flow of water just by his elbow. "You're absolutely filthy. Can't have you stinking up the place... right, boys?" 

"Damn straight!" one of the men yells. Various other murmurs of agreement cycle throughout the men, who nod and jeer at Jesse. 

Jesse backs up against the wall, scrambling. He wanted to get clean, but not like this. That said, there's nowhere to go. He can't bolt for it - there's too many guys around. Todd stands behind the rest, watching curiously, detached. It makes Jesse sick to his stomach. "Christ," he whispers to himself, closing his eyes. 

The first jet of water is harder than he anticipated, and there is no way that he could have fully prepared for it. It stings, like cold gravel grinding against his skin, even through a layer of clothing. Jesse flinches, trying to figure out the least painful way to deal with this. Jack and his boys laugh, taking turns with the hose. His entire body feels like it's on fire within a minute, the harsh water pressure blitzing every inch. Even when he tries to curl in one position or another, his captors are relentless, aiming the water at pressure points and weak spots - and they aren't afraid to spray it at his face, either. He comes away gasping, trembling, water pouring off of his face but he can barely even curl against the wall because they keep aiming at his lower back, at the backs of his knees... 

The worst thing is that he doesn't even have the energy to cry. He takes it until they grow bored of him. That afternoon, he starts his cook, walking in puddles of water left by his own body. 

"You're going to have to clean that up later," Kenny tells him, gesturing at him with one of his pistols. 

Jesse nods weakly, holding onto the chain that keeps him tethered as he walks towards the methylamene. Todd watches him cook, intent, his expression slightly soft. And yet the fucker doesn't help him, either. 

He ends the day with sore knees from scrubbing, dizzy from the earlier assault. The cold, fast food hamburger Todd gives him in sympathy doesn't do much to make him feel any better. It sits like a hard lump in his stomach as he tries to sleep that night.

~

Sweat sticks to Jesse's forehead. It's so fucking hot out.

He debates, for an indeterminate amount of time, whether he should take his clothes off or not. Even at night, it's so goddamn hot. That said... 

He's lying down on his stomach, immobile. Kenny had lots of fun with him today. He can feel the welts on his back even as he's lying in a position that should aggravate his wounds the least. He's kind of afraid what might happen if he takes off his shirt. He doesn't want to get dirt in them - this already hurts like hell, so imagining grit inside his wounds does not sound like his idea of a fun night. Especially when he doesn't know when he'll get another proper shower again. He's only had a couple more hosings since that first time. Even then, he doesn't get much cleaner, since there's no soap. There are so many little things that he took for granted in the past... 

Whimpering, he rolls over on his side. He needs to think of anything else aside from... _this_.

\- What's Brock doing? Is the AC in his room working this year? He remembered Brock complaining, when he got back from the hospital, that the AC wasn't cool enough. Of course he got him a new AC unit, but... who knows what's going on with that house, now. Things didn't exactly end the way he was envisioning when he bought the place. 

He hopes Brock is okay. He wishes he was there with him. Not just so that he could leave this place - but for Brock's sake, too. At least he has his great-grandma to look after him, but... jeez. He remembers how much it sucked the first few months, sleeping in his Aunt Ginny's house after... she... 

Jesse closes his eyes, letting out a slow groan. He thinks about playing Sonic the Hedgehog again, half-heartedly trying to beat Brock's high score. (He'd always beaten Brock at racing games, though.) About helping Brock with his math homework. About taking Brock out to dinner... his mouth waters at the memory of going out to eat tacos. Man, what he'd give for one of those right now. Brock is such a picky eater, but lots of kids are. Sometimes, when Andre wasn't looking, he'd sneak Brock a candy bar or let him steal his fries. 

He fondly remembers the first time that Brock smiled at him - a real smile, not the fake-polite one he puts on because he's shy. People say that "a smile like the sun" or "his smile lit up the whole room" are cliches, but Brock really does embody that. Looking at Brock makes Jesse want to do better. Brock is just... such a good kid. 

Jesse sighs slowly, trying to focus on the image, to let the memories of balmy days cool off the heat searing against his wounds.

~

"I'm real sorry about that, Jesse." Jesse flinches as Todd applies antiseptic to a gash on the back of his hand. Todd is surprisingly tender, but that grosses Jesse out a little. It'd be so much better if Todd just... didn't give a shit. "You know I told them that it'd be going too far to damage your hands." Jesse stares as Todd cleans his wound, carefully washing away drying blood and ensuring that the ointment is on properly before wrapping Jesse's hand in gauze. "You need those."

Ah. Of course. That would explain why Todd is focusing on Jesse's hand, and not trying to bandage up his head, too. It's _obviously_ fine if Jesse is concussed while cooking, right? Doesn't matter if Jesse can think straight as long as he can cook meth, repeating muscle memory step by step. 

"... Thanks." 

Todd smiles, completely missing the quiver in Jesse's voice. "You're welcome." He squeezes Jesse's shoulder. "Anything special I can get for you tonight? Sales have been going really well lately. You deserve a little treat." Jesse falters, unsure if this is a trap. Todd doesn't _usually_ trap him, but he has been cruel on occasion. Todd tilts his head. "How about pizza? I know you like it. I'll call up your favorite place." 

"Um... yeah, sure," Jesse manages. 

Jesse might have interpreted the look that Todd gives him as friendly in the past, but now he just feels like he's being coddled. "Cool. I'll go do that." Todd stands and wipes his hands on his jeans, helping Jesse hobble over to the cage. "I'll, uh, get it down to you somehow." 

"Thanks," Jesse repeats. 

When Jesse reaches the bottom and Todd pulls the ladder up, he rests his head against the wall, groaning softly. His head can't stop spinning. Jack kicked him pretty hard in the head. It can't keep going on like this. Jesse doesn't know how he can survive like this for much longer, even though he doesn't want to die. 

Someday, this is all going to end. 

Jesse laughs to himself, tears forming on his eyelids. Fuck. Who knows how long it's been... must have been months based off his beard... and he's only now realizing that he's probably going to die here. It's just a matter of time until Jack gets bored of him, or convinces Todd that he's not worth keeping. 

There's so much he wishes he could say. That's the first thing that comes to mind when he thinks about his own mortality. 

"Dear Brock..." he mumbles to himself, thinking out loud. He shakes, hating the words that come to his mind. He doesn't want it to end like this. But what would he say, if he could say something? 

_Dear Brock... this is the last time you'll ever hear from me._

The tarp lifts and Todd frowns, trying to figure out how to best get the box down to Jesse. Eventually, he lowers the box down through the grate opening using a length of rope. Jesse carefully unwraps the box, and then Todd pulls up the rope. "Well... see you later," Todd says, and slips the tarp back over the top of the cage. 

The pizza is still warm, but it barely comforts Jesse as he eats it, salty tears running down his face and into his beard. God, this should feel so good. Instead, it feels like a dying man's final meal before his execution.

~

Ed's basement is Jesse's final prison. He's making sure of it.

He's not as "hot" as Mr. White was (which Jesse would take offense to if he took that phrase at face value), but he still is pretty high profile, so Ed's giving him a week before smuggling him up to Alaska. It's boring as fuck down here, but at least there's a proper bed, some actual lighting... some stuff to read. Most of it is boring as shit, but Jesse has to memorize it. These are his new papers, his new life, his new identity. He's gotta know everything forwards and backwards if he wants this to work. There's also a hot shower with soap and water, which Jesse has luxuriated in twice. It's a bit cramped, but he doesn't care. Regular, bland meals and a clean bed are more than enough for him. 

And... there's some paper with which to write. 

Sitting on his bed, he folds and unfolds his hands, staring at the pad of green paper on the desk on the opposite wall. It's not the most fancy... but that's fine. And Brock likes green. 

_Just to be clear,_ Ed had told him a few days prior, _there is absolutely no going back. Jesse Pinkman won't exist after this. When you're gone, you're gone. No more keeping in touch with Mom and Dad who so dearly wanted you to turn yourself in._

_Yeah, that's fine,_ Jesse had said. They loved him, but... they weren't really his family anymore. 

Ed gave Jesse a long, hard look, and sighed through his nose. _Okay, then._ Ed took his photo after that, and everything carried on as normal. 

But will everything carry on as normal for Brock...? Is Mrs. Cantillo telling him that he's on the news? Jesse rests his face against his propped up fist, rolling his knuckles against his lip. 

So, this is it. His last days as Jesse Pinkman. It feels a little nostalgic. 

He wants to capture this moment and bottle it up. Jesse stands up, walks to the table, and sits, clicking a pen and starting to write. The words have repeated in his head for weeks, but they become their own thing, take on a different meaning as he writes with his own hands.

~

_Dear Brock,_

_This is probably the last you'll ever hear from me. I hope you're doing okay. Shit's been hard, I know._

_I don't know what your great-grandma told you. I don't know if she'll let you read this letter. But I wanted to tell you some things in my own words, on my own terms, before I go away forever. If you're reading this, Mrs. Cantillo, I'm sorry for everything that happened to your family. It was all my fault. You have a right to be mad at me, and to hate me. Same goes for you, Brock._

The truck hits a large bump and Jesse groans, rattling in the back of Ed's moving van. He said it's a six day drive up north, and this is day four. Using the lantern provided, he reads over his final letter. 

_Brock, I wasn't a good person. I can't make things right in the way that I want. It's impossible. I've had a lot of time to think lately. I've thought about what I would want to do if I could do it all over again._

_It's hard when you're a kid, you know? I never felt like grown-ups understood me. Only my aunt ever really got me, and she died. So, I really, really feel for you Brock... and I'm sorry. I don't want you to feel alone. Your great-grandma loves you, okay? I know she'll take good care of you. I just wish I could be there with you._

_Maybe it's selfish, but I'm glad I met you._

Jesse wipes his face against his sleeve. 

_You're such a good kid. I know you're going to do great. There's so much ahead of you. It's okay to have a little fun, but don't get in over your head. It's not worth it. You're worth the world to me, and I know you were worth everything to your mom, too. We both love you so much._

_I might be gone, but I won't ever forget you._

He stares longingly that the last words, burning them into his memory. Having done that, he tucks the letter into his pocket and curls up against the space heater. It's starting to get chilly. At least he has a thick jacket to keep him warm.

~

Maybe it's stupid, but Casey Driscoll is a sentimental man.

He's not super dumb - he doesn't pour over articles about Jesse Pinkman and Walter White or anything else regarding that aspect of a man who is dead now. He doesn't do drugs anymore, either. He goes to the occasional NA meeting, but he doesn't go every time. He's able to form connections in Alaska, by being himself. He quickly realized, after doing a few semesters at community college, that sports medicine was a pipe dream, but carpentry is suiting him well. He likes being able to use his hands, to create something beautiful when his clients need a new cabinet or need their deck remodeled. Casey Driscoll is a goddamn artist. 

And he's been spending his years honing his craft. 

In his small house up in Haines, he's been preparing. For what, it's hard for him to say, exactly. There are concrete things he's done: gotten all sorts of paperwork sorted, renovated and painted the place, put new furniture in every room. There's a state of the art game rig in the living room, and lots of hand-carved toys and puzzles in the guest room. It looks like a home. But there's one distinct thing missing. 

One day where he doesn't have a lot going on, he whittles away at a piece of wood in his studio. This will be a toy, someday - he was thinking one of those interlocking puzzles, where nothing really makes sense until everything is in its rightful place. Everything is all the more satisfying when it's like that in the end. 

He picks up his smartphone and scrolls through some newspapers... including Albuquerque's. Things seem like they're mostly normal down there again. Of course he can't expect Jesse Pinkman's name to show up in the papers years after the fact... kind of a relief, really. 

Casey's eyes hone in on something, on a name he has kept locked in his heart but hasn't read in many years. _Survived by one relative: her great-grandson, Brock Cantillo._ A few more clicks later, and Casey's heart feels like it's pounding out of his chest. 

Before he even realizes what he's doing, Casey is on the phone, dropping his knife on the floor. "Yeah? Hi. Um, I know I'm calling from out of state, but I was wondering. There's this... kid on your website. Brock C.? I was looking around, and... - yeah, yeah, sure. I understand. I can wait." 

Smooth jazz plays as he's put on hold. This is crazy. But... 

Casey smiles, leaning back in his chair. He was already preparing to adopt a kid soon, anyway; he always wanted to be a dad. He just hadn't started looking. 

Turns out, he didn't need to. The answer was right in front of his nose all along, as soon as it was the right time and the right place.

~

Years have changed them both. Brock has lost most of his baby fat - which makes sense, because he's ten. _Practically grown up_ , Brock thinks. He's still Casey's kid, always will be. And Casey... well, he's Casey now. But some things never change.

"You're still a huge cheater," Brock says, grinning as Casey speeds past him. 

"You just need to get good, man!" Casey laughs, holding onto the right trigger as he moves the left stick with deft motions. "Here, look. You gotta - "

Brock giggles. "You're trying to _distract_ me!" 

Casey eases up, purposefully slowing down. "Hey, hey. I would _never_." He still beats Brock by a considerable measure, but Brock does better than last time. "Well, that's enough of that. You need any help with your homework?" 

Brock shakes his head. "No, I think I got it." He smiles and it lights up the whole room. "That was fun, Casey." 

Warmth spreads through Casey's chest, and he ruffles Brock's hair. It's just another ordinary Thursday night, but it feels like one of the best he's ever had as Casey Driscoll. 

And there are so many more to be had.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some bonus fluff for you.

Casey ducks, anticipating the onslaught about to overtake him. "Yo! You still can't get me! Undisputed champ of Haines, Alaska, right here, dog!" 

Brock groans, patting a snowball in his glove. They are folded between the trees in their backyard "Caseyyy, you're just getting lucky." Casey laughs, standing upright, and Brock takes this opportunity to sling the snowball straight at Casey's arm. It lands, and Brock fistpumps, spinning around in circles. "Yess! Got you!" 

"Haha, nice one!" Casey grins, rubbing his arm. 

"It's not over, Driscoll," Brock says, narrowing his eyes. Oh man. It's on. Brock has recently started doing this thing where he uses last names for his friends when he's feeling really competitive. Casey thinks it's kind of cute, so he doesn't care that Brock does it to him, too. 

"Yeah? I'd like to see you try." Casey leans over, putting his hands on his knees and staring right at Brock. "Come on. Let's dance." 

Brock grabs some snow, packing it firmly between his gloved hands. He's very focused, his eyebrows furrowed. He bites the tip of his tongue when he's thinking really hard. Casey grins, and braces himself. He hope Brock doesn't notice that he's not even trying to sling a snowball this time. It's really fun to watch Brock win. 

Suddenly, before Casey can even realize what's happening, he gets pelted right in the center of his chest. He falls over on his back, laughing. "Dude! Nice one!" Brock runs over to his side and leans over, grinning at him. "I guess we're tied for victor now, huh?" 

"Pfft, yeah right." Brock flops over in the snow next to Casey, making a snow angel. "You know I kicked your ass." 

"Haha, yeah you did!" Casey rolls over. "Damn, your aim has gotten really good." 

Brock stares up at the clean, blue sky. "I guess so." 

"I bet you'll do great in the baseball team in the spring." Casey draws in the snow idly with his pointer finger. "You know, if you wanted to do that." 

"Yeah, I think that sounds fun." Brock takes in a deep breath, and then turns to face Casey. "It's nice having normal friends who only know me as the kid from New Mexico. You know... instead of all the other stuff." 

Casey smiles, although something brews slightly complicated in his chest. "Yeah, I bet." At least he was able to fix things. 

Brock sits up, looking off into the woods. "Casey, did you hear that?" 

Casey perks up his ears. "What am I supposed to be hearing?" 

Urgently, Brock jumps up. "It's coming from the woods." He runs towards - whatever it is he's hearing. 

"Hey, dude, there's bears!" Casey struggles to get to his feet and bolts after Brock. He's able to follow his adoptive son pretty quickly, but, damn, the kid is growing up fast and can run just about as fast as Casey can, now. 

Finally, Brock kneels down by a log, hollowed out by decay. "You don't hear it?" Brock says, tilting his head. 

Casey catches his breath. "Uh, not really, no?" And then he does. "Wait. How did you hear that from so far away?" 

Brock shrugs, peering into the log. "I thought it was pretty loud." 

Casey crouches down. "Don't get too close. Let me take a look." Reluctantly, Brock shuffles off to the side, and Casey peers in. 

A kitten, no older than 16 weeks old, crouches inside of the log, wet and shivering. Its green eyes shine brightly against its black fur. 

"Hey," Casey says softly, extending his hand. "It's okay." Gingerly, the kitten steps forward, sniffing Casey's hand. "It's all right. We aren't going to hurt you." Casey's heart swells as the kitten bumps its head against his fingers, and, carefully, he scratches behind its ears. "Brock, the cat seems friendly. We should probably try to bring it back home to see if it's got a chip in it or whatever." 

"Right." He crouches behind Casey, hands outstretched. 

Very carefully, Casey reaches forward with both hands, picking the kitten up from underneath. To his surprise, the kitten yields, not fighting against Casey at all. The kitten, in fact, becomes pliable in his hands. Very carefully, Casey pulls the kitten to his chest, holding it against him. "Okay. Good. There we go." The kitten nuzzles against his chest and sighs, relaxing. Casey strokes its back. "Hey, Brock? Can you call up the vet?"

~

Shadow takes to the Driscoll residence very well. The vet seemed to think she was a stray, so Casey couldn't help himself. He made sure that she got all of her shots and ensured that she was in perfect health. She's a special cat, Casey thinks to himself when he brings her home that first day. She immediately starts purring when she enters the house, and curls up on Brock's lap while he does homework. Cats normally don't do that, right? But she slots into their life perfectly.

"Hey, hey," Casey says one day after building someone a new cabinet, "you'll get your food, don't worry." Shadow jumps up onto the table and stares at him plaintively, her wide eyes shining. He cracks open a can of wet food and places it in her bowl. "There you go," he says, scratching behind her ears as she gobbles down her food, purring happily. 

Brock gets dropped off from his baseball team carpool about a half hour later. Casey's in the kitchen, making enchiladas. (He can't keep buying pizza and microwaved meals forever, especially now that he's got a kid.) He knows that his food doesn't hold a candle to Andrea's yet, but maybe someday he can make dinner that would make her proud. 

A fire crackles in the fireplace as Casey hands Brock dinner, and Shadow curls at his feet. He sighs, contented, as he cuts off a portion of his own meal with his fork and pops it in his mouth. 

This life might not be flashy, and he may be in Alaska, but this is the warmest he's ever been.


End file.
